Through the Wall
by nine miles to go
Summary: When Kirk's brother pays an unexpected visit Spock discovers more about his captain's past than he bargained for.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I own none of Star Trek, none, none, none . . .

NOTE ON STORY ORIGINS: This is loosely based on the movie, or some deleted scenes from it, which show Kirk and his brother dealing with their abusive Uncle Frank. I am fully aware that George Samuel Kirk works for Starfleet in the original series, but as this is an alternate reality I decided to make him a jackass. Enjoy. :)

* * *

"I'm looking for a Jim . . . Jim Kirk."

Spock tilted his head upon hearing the gruffly spoken words, and saw a disheveled looking man of approximately twenty-eight years standing impatiently at the front desk of the school. His body language betrayed his ignorance. His lips smacked uncouthly around his cigarette, his posture was careless and sloppy, his face unshaven.

The girl at the front desk frowned. "You mean the captain, James Kirk?"

The stranger let out a derisive snort. "No, I mean Jim. Jim—"

"James Tiberius Kirk," Spock intercepted, taking a step forward. The girl at the front desk shrank back, intimidated, but the stranger raised his eyebrows at Spock as if he were amused and stood his ground.

"You know him?"

"Yes."

The stranger looked around the room as if he were searching for some other means of communication that wasn't Spock, but then his eyes landed back on his again. "Where can I find him, then?" he asked, his voice absent of any of the usual politeness humans used when making an acquaintance.

"May I ask your identity?"

"My _identity_?" he laughed again, unkindly. Spock had the impression that the stranger was convinced of his own superiority, but he remained tolerant. "George Samuel Kirk," he answered, and he grinned, waiting for a reaction.

"Captain of the USS Kelvin," Spock returned, wary of the man's claim.

"I'm his son."

The name clearly did not suit his person. Spock tried to find the resemblance between this dark-haired, angry looking stranger and Jim, presuming that they were brothers. In the moment Spock took to survey the man seemed to take personal offense.

"Look, I don't have all day. Do you know where Jim is or not?"

For a moment Spock considered requesting the reason for his visit, as he had known Jim for two months now and he had assumed he had no living family—he had not mentioned a brother at all, an oddity only because the captain had a relatively loose tongue. But he decided against it, seeing that the man was poised to assert himself with very little excuse. Spock avoided conflict and led him directly to the captain's quarters, adjacent to his own.

"This one here?"

Spock nodded. To his surprise, rather than knocking the man flung the door open as if it were his own, revealing Kirk asleep on top of his sheets as though he had merely closed his eyes and lay there without bothering to take his shoes off. Spock turned away, thinking that this was most inappropriate a spectacle, but not before he had seen the marks on Kirk's bare back—lines that crisscrossed, shocking and ugly against his otherwise unblemished skin. Even when Spock turned away, blinking at the rudeness of Kirk's brother, he saw the image as though it were burned into his eyelids.

"Skid."

Spock regarded the man curiously, then realized that he was addressing Kirk as "Skid." Kirk didn't so much as flinch in his sleep, until the man walked over and shook him roughly. Kirk scowled.

"_Sam?_"

Immediately he composed himself, whipping around so that his back was no longer visible. Spock took a hasty step back, knowing it was ridiculous to feel guilty for having seen, especially when he had only been taking logical action at the time. How was he to account for the rashness of humans?

Particularly whichever human had done such physical harm to Kirk.

As Spock entered his own quarters he couldn't help the nagging pulse in the back of his head, compelling him to stay. Curiosity? He'd learned to master it as a boy, but now it seemed as demanding and persistent as it had the very first time. It took more effort than he'd anticipated to resist staying in the hallway to listen.

It wasn't until he shut his own door that he realized he could hear everything in the next room as though there weren't a wall between them. This hadn't occurred to him previously, as neither he nor Kirk spent much time in their respective quarters, and there hadn't been any noise to hear.

"What are you . . . how did you get here?"

It was Kirk who had spoken. Spock closed his eyes, trying to focus and block out the noise. It truly was not his business. There was absolutely no reason for his concern.

"Figured you'd end up at Starfleet, where else did you have to run?" The scorn was evident in his tone.

"Run?"

"Too good for us Riverside folk, so you packed up and left without a word."

Kirk's laugh was incredulous. "You left long before I did."

"But I came back."

"What, ran out of money?" There was an edge in his voice that Spock hadn't heard before, but just as soon as he'd said it Kirk amended, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have . . ."

"No, no, you hit the nail on the head, Skid. What, you want to rub it in my face that now you're some high-falutin' Starfleet cadet when I'm still up to my eyeballs picking up trash from junior high kids?"

Spock deduced that Kirk had not shared his recent ascent to captain with his brother, and it made him reconsider his assessment of Kirk's character for a moment.

There was a noticeable pause, until Kirk finally said in a resigned way, "Why are you here, Sam?"

"Uncle Frank's dead."

"Oh."

"That's all you gotta say?"

"Pretty much, unless _you _have something to say," Kirk returned, his words clipped despite his attempt to remain casual.

"The man practically _raised _you, Skid—"

"That's a funny way of putting it."

"He could have turned you out, stuck us in a foster home—"

"He was never sober enough to try."

"You don't even give a shit, do you?"

Spock realized he was holding his breath and slowly let it leak out of him. His entire body was rigid, poised and listening; all his thoughts of self-control and potential consequences had disappeared as the conversation progressed.

It was custom for humans to grieve for their dead, even encouraged. Yet Kirk seemed entirely unaffected by this news. Spock knew that he would be able to better gage the situation if only he could see the expression on the man's face, for in his short time with Kirk he had managed to assess and memorize the less-than-subtle twitches and ticks that gave him away. He was like an open book. But his voice was so hard and even from the other side of the wall that Spock felt disconnected, and it . . . well, it frustrated him.

"How did he die?"

"Same way you tried to—raced one of those antiques right off a cliff on a bet. He was drunk."

"You were there?"

"Yeah, in the race, but I didn't see it happen."

Spock detected a falsehood in this claim, but it was the futile sort. This lie would change nothing in the course of events. Spock had often wondered why humans purposefully led each other astray when there was no clear advantage to it. He disregarded this in favor of the claim that captured his attention: Kirk's alleged attempt at death.

More than thirty seconds passed, and Spock was aware that Kirk's brother was moving in the room. He imagined "Sam," as Kirk called him, regarding the bare walls of the room, the spaciousness and solitude that a captain's quarters offered. He wondered if Sam was intelligent enough to realize his brother's promotion, but he doubted it. If he hadn't read about the Enterprise's miraculous rescue mission, led by Kirk, in any of Earth's available media, then he would likely be too ignorant to form his own deductions.

"So why did you really come here?" Kirk's voice was so low that he was almost inaudible. There was an undertone of vulnerability, the fear of being judged.

"Well, somebody had to tell you what happened."

"You could have called."

"Oh, so now you're embarrassed that I might be seen near you? You really think you're that great now?"

"You're being ridiculous," Kirk said in exasperation, and Spock was struck by how uncannily it resembled his own exasperation with Kirk.

Sam was raising his voice, so much that Spock would be surprised if the whole wing didn't hear the exchange. By a stroke of luck most of the quarters were empty during this time of day, a situation Kirk must have been depending on, or Spock was certain he would have sent his brother away by now to avoid a spectacle.

"Don't you act like you're better than I am, just because you passed some stupid tests and scraped your way in here. You're no better than me, and don't you forget it."

"I never said I was! Sam, you had every opportunity to take those tests, and you let every one go—"

"You never even told me you were taking them."

"How could I? You were never even home! You didn't even give a shit about me, why should I have told you anything back then and why do you think I have to answer to you now? Honestly—"

"It was _me _who was supposed to get out of there! You were the screw-up, you were the dead-end, you were _nothing_." The last word sounded as though it had been spat from a grill.

Spock knew Kirk's facial expressions so well that he could see the captain flinching in his mind's eye.

"So that's why you came. You've wanted to tell me that for a while, haven't you," said Kirk.

And that's when Spock heard something that should not have caught him off guard—the sound of a fist connecting with flesh, and the thud of Kirk's head against their shared wall.

"What the_—agh!"_

Another thud, and then the yelling continued.

"You wanna know why he didn't hit me? Because I wasn't dumb as shit! You _lived _to piss him off, if you weren't drawing on the walls you were wrecking his car, if you weren't cutting classes you were lighting things on fire—"

"I'm not going to fight you, Sam!" Kirk's voice was muffled, indicating that he was likely on the floor.

"What, because you're the 'better man' now? Or because you know that you can't win?"

There was an atrocious clatter and Spock knew without sight of it that it was the desk—at first Spock thought it was Kirk throwing Sam, having been provoked. It was in his nature to retaliate. But he heard a painful grunt and knew at once that the fight was continuing and, true to his word, Kirk was not exchanging blows.

"You're every bit as pathetic as you were back in Riverside—"

"Stop." The voice was Spock's own. He was standing rigid, his hand on the doorknob he'd just forced open. He did not recall making a resolute decision to enter, only realized where he was and what he had done as the command escaped him, urgent and harsh.

Kirk's eyes connected with Spock's in horror. His hand, raised to protect himself, stopped in mid-air, but Sam's punch followed through without so much as hesitating.

"_Shit_," Kirk managed, spitting out blood. His face was already a mess in the short time Spock had heard them fight. "Spock . . . what're you—"

Sam's fist had already elevated, poised to strike again, and Spock's strong sense of dislike for Kirk's brother further manifested. He snatched Sam's upper arm with his fingers, clenching them around the muscle until the man cried out in surprise.

"It is quite dishonorable to strike a man who does not intend to strike back," he said tautly.

Finally Sam was forced to acknowledge Spock's presence, turning to him with a red-faced scowl that twisted his features in a grotesque manner. He was physically quaking with his own rage. He tried to dislodge his arm from Spock's clutches, but found to his own embarrassment that it would not budge from the Vulcan's grip.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he finally demanded.

Out of the corner of his eye Spock saw Kirk stumbling to his feet, backing himself toward the wall. "I'm his first officer," Spock said evenly, never breaking his intense hold on the man's arm. By now the the blood loss to his arm would be numbing it, but Spock didn't want to release the man quite yet.

"His . . . _what_?"

"Spock, you don't have to—you shouldn't have—" Kirk stammered, looking too bewildered to form a coherent sentence.

"Skid—get this thing off me!" Sam snarled, still struggling like an ape.

At first Kirk didn't say anything, his chest heaving, just watching the pair of them in stupefaction. "Let him go, Spock," he sighed.

Spock obeyed, and Sam wrenched his arm away violently. He turned his attention to Spock, his stance clearly meant to intimidate, but without any success. "What is this, your alien bodyguard? You're such a wimp now that they assign freaks to fight your battles for you?" he said cruelly.

Spock may have inadvertently reacted had Kirk not beaten him to it.

"Get out," said Kirk without missing a beat. His confusion had given way to fury, and the self-assured, indignant captain that Spock knew best had returned. He drew himself to full height. "You have no right to speak to Spock like that."

It was as though somebody had stepped on Spock's chest and left it permanently indented. He frowned unconsciously, turning to Kirk, who barely noticed. Nobody had ever defended him like that, not in his entire life.

"And tell me, where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"You can go to hell, Sam. You can't stay here."

Kirk turned away, facing the broken up desk, holding his head with his hand. Spock remained where he was, still stunned by Kirk's leap to his defense. Sam did not move for a moment, as though he expected Kirk to turn around and change his mind; when it became clear that that was not his intention, Sam slowly started to leave, but Spock recognized the glint in his eye and saw his fist twitch upward—

This time Spock knocked him clear to the ground, satisfied to hear the thunk of his mass hitting the ground.

Kirk whipped around and looked at Spock in astonishment. "What was that for?" he said, half a laugh in his strained voice.

It only took a second for Spock to recompose himself. "He intended you further harm, captain."

"I told you to call me Jim," Kirk muttered reflexively.

Spock remembered this request, of course, but he meant for Sam to understand the magnitude of what he had done—hitting his younger brother was quite a different matter than hitting a Starfleet captain, particularly when he had arrived uninvited.

"_Captain_?"

Sam staggered up, and Kirk stared at him directly in the face, his eyes alarmingly cold. "Yes. Now get out of my quarters or I'll call security."

Sam opened his mouth as though he were about to say something, but decided against it just as quickly, rounding on them and stalking out.

Spock didn't dare speak first. He eyed Kirk warily, waiting for his reaction. He wondered if he would be upset that Spock had interfered. Instead he asked rather unexpectedly, "Do we even have security?"

Perplexed, Spock could only nod.

"Good, because I was bluffing," said Kirk with a slow, stretched-out smile that seemed too tight for his face. .

Spock understood that Kirk was brushing off the incident, trying not to diminish himself in front of his first officer. He took a step backward, wondering how he could most appropriately excuse himself.

When he looked up Kirk was watching the open door. He must have thought to put on a shirt in the time he'd spent speaking with his brother, because the scars were covered, as was the rest of him.

"Captain—"

"Jim," Kirk repeated.

"Jim," Spock amended, not accustomed to the informality and unsure of whether or not his tongue agreed with it. "Your brother—"

"He's not usually like that," Kirk said quickly, as he used the back of his hand to wipe the blood on his face. "I mean, with the fists and yelling and shenanigans. That's not Sam." He sounded as though he were trying to convince himself of this more than Spock. "But I . . . appreciate what you did for me."

Before Spock could speak, though, Jim straightened abruptly and said, "I have somewhere to be."

Spock nodded, understanding that this was untrue. Spock exited first and Kirk followed, shutting the door hastily and making his way down the hallway until he turned a corner and was out of sight.

He wondered what it was that would have escaped if Jim hadn't interrupted him to leave, but he had forgotten it now, suppressed it past his memory. It was better not to say anything at all.

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Thanks for reading :)

upilll09


	2. Chapter Two

As soon as Kirk was sure Spock could no longer see him, he realized what a dumb ass he was, walking in a relatively open hallway with his face split up like a Halloween mask. He took a few more steps forward and wracked his brain for a next course of action, but the only place he could ensure that he wouldn't be seen were his own quarters. And no doubt Spock would hear him arrive.

He knew it was irrational, but he didn't want to see Spock right now. The idea of it made his face burn—partially because he was surprised and gratified by Spock's loyalty toward him, which he thought he had yet to earn, but more than anything because Spock had seen a part of him that he had successfully buried three years ago.

Kirk had almost forgotten about Riverside. Wrapped up in the daily distractions and exhaustion of leading his crew, he'd started to sleep through the night without the dreams. He'd loosened up enough that he didn't flinch anytime Bones came near his neck with a needle, or jump when somebody tapped him from behind. Life was getting a little too close to perfect, so it figured that Sam would turn up out of nowhere and tear it down in one stroke.

The lavatory, Kirk decided. There was a public one at the end of the hall, even though all the separate rooms already provided their own.

When he saw his face in the mirror, he grimaced. His left eye was yellow around the socket, already unnaturally discolored. Blood smeared across his chin so sloppily that he wasn't sure exactly where it was flowing from. There was a particularly nasty cut on his shoulder from falling into the desk, and other scratches that he didn't even bother with. It didn't hurt so much now that he'd walked it off, but it would be difficult to clean this up without getting that damned Bones involved.

He methodically turned on the sink and started to wash his face, sinking into the familiarity of watching his blood run down the drain.

In a way it seemed worse that it was Spock who had run in. As if it would have been less embarrassing if anybody else had heard the scuffle and caught the brothers fighting; somehow, with Spock, it all seemed so damn personal.

Maybe because as Kirk thought of Spock defending him, the image that he remembered most were his eyes, fixed on him without reserve. Spock, champion of apathy, the half-breed who barely ever reacted to even the most pressing of situations, had communicated so much understanding in that moment that it scared Kirk that anyone could ever know so much about him and how he felt without really knowing anything at all.

He shook some of the water from his face and grabbed a nearby towel. It wasn't by any means decent-looking, but this was as clean as he was going to get until the bruises cleared up.

Unsure of what to do next, Kirk decided it would be best to get out of the confines of the building. He almost smiled as he walked toward the exit—he remembered the old pattern, from when he was a boy. He'd endured whatever it was his uncle inflicted on him and as soon as it was over his fingers would tingle with the urge to do something reckless, something dangerous. He felt it now, twitching in his limbs, whispering like a ghost, but he knew by now to resist it.

As it turned out, this time the danger sought him. The door opened to the young Pavel Chekov, who was shifting somewhat tentatively just outside. His face lit up when he saw Kirk. "Keptin," he said, handing him a piece of paper. "A summons."

Kirk broke past the seal and read his orders. "We need to be assembled and ready to fly out to Starbase 1 within the hour. Can you alert the rest of crew?"

Chekov nodded slowly. "Keptin. Your face . . ."

"Is extraordinarily handsome, no pictures, please."

* * *

Bones couldn't believe it, but he was sitting in a bar and actually considering striking up conversation with a beautiful woman for the first time since the divorce. And to think, he wasn't even drunk yet. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes wide and inviting, parted by long, thick lashes—

_Be be beep. _

His stomach sank. Through his pants pocket he saw that the screen of his pager was illuminated bright orange, which meant he'd probably be in space within the next two hours, and (more significantly), would probably never lay eyes on this woman again.

"Damn it all," he muttered, reading the text. Prince Carmeleon of the northern side of planet Acton was demanding immediate transport from Earth, where he'd been based, back to his warring home world. There appeared to be a temporary cease-fire between the northern and southern poles of the small planet, and Carmeleon was taking what could be only a small window opportunity to make negotiations with his counterpart prince in the South.

Their two day vacation was officially over.

With a melodramatic sigh, Bones hoisted himself up from his stool, abandoning what was going to be his lunch and heading toward his quarters to collect his uniform.

Upon entering the hall that led to his quarters Bones immersed himself in the usual chaos before an impending mission, which consisted of running into Chekov, who was worriedly trying to find one of his shoes, and Sulu, who was hurriedly packing his various fencing instruments so they clattered noisily from his quarters. The doors were all open and members of the Enterprise crew were milling in and out freely—for the next twenty minutes everybody shared the space and didn't bother separating themselves.

That was why Bones frowned when he saw two doors closed. He expected no less from Spock, of course, because the Vulcan probably didn't feel the need to share in the mayhem ensuing beyond his room. But Jim? If he wasn't deliberately sticking his nose in every one of his crew member's business, something was up.

Bones knocked.

"Yeah?" he heard Jim call, sounding normal enough.

"I might have gotten married to that woman at the bar if I didn't associate myself with you."

Jim chuckled from inside, opening the door. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon, and you were at a bar? Even for you, Bones—"

Bones cut him off, gaping at his condition. He'd seen Jim after more than a few scuffles, but at least the kid had always put up a pretty decent offense. Even fighting against the Romulans Jim hadn't looked so busted up. His lip was split, there were several nasty looking cuts framing his face, his left eye was swelling, and he seemed to be swaying slightly on his feet.

"What'd you do, pick a fight with a blender?"

His young friend smirked easily. "You should see the blender."

"Dammit, Jim," Bones muttered, reaching in his jacket pocket for his scanner. "It's like you live to inconvenience me—"

Jim recognized the device and took a wary step back. "We really don't have time for that, you read the briefing."

Bones rolled his eyes and took an aggressive step into the room. "It'll only take a minute, quit whining."

"I'm not whining, I'm simply pointing out that we are on a schedule—"

"Whining," Bones insisted, ignoring the captain's discomfort. No matter how much authority Jim thought he might have, he wasn't going to get past him anytime soon. "Concussion. There's a crack in your skull, but it's minor. Quit squirming. Your nose is busted, I'm going to have to bandage it—"

"I'll look like an idiot, you can't do that!" Jim exclaimed.

"—two cracked ribs, and I'm going to have to patch up that shoulder. And let me assure you, Jim, you already look like an idiot."

"Gee, Bones, you're a bottle of sunshine."

Only Jim Kirk could give him lip like that without hitting a nerve. "Seriously, Jim, what did you do to yourself—?"

It was then that Bones saw the state of the old-fashioned desk in the room. It had been bare before, Bones was certain, because they'd only arrived on Earth after a recon mission two days ago and up until then they'd been living on the ship. Now the desk's thin top was smashed and two of the legs were caved in, the wood splintered violently.

"What in the . . ." Bones muttered in disbelief.

Jim's eyes followed his gaze to the desk. "Long story. One we'll have time for later," he said, although Bones immediately sensed his reluctance to elaborate.

"You smashed an entire desk to bits and you think you're getting off that easy?" Bones pressed.

Jim looked uncharacteristically on edge. His mouth twitched at the corners as if he was struggling to maintain composure, and he was cracking his knuckles at his sides. "We need to get going," he said. His voice was even and clipped, but Bones knew the kid better than that.

"Not for another half hour at least," Bones countered. "Tell me what happened."

"Bones . . ."

"As the mission at hand is our top priority, I believe it would be unwise to linger much longer."

Bones whipped around to face none other than the Enterprise's first officer, standing in the doorway as apathetic and unaffected as always. Bones almost snapped at him, indignant at being interrupted. What the hell did Spock have to barge in on this particular conversation, when he barely ever spoke two words to anybody that weren't Starfleet jargon?

The doctor pursed his lips to keep from saying anything too snarky. "I'm well aware of the time constraints . . . commander."

"Spock's right," said Jim, letting out a long breath of what sounded like relief. "I bet most of the crew's made it to the shuttle already."

At this Spock nodded to signal his departure, then swiftly turned down the hallway.

Pointy-eared bastard.

Bones waited until he was at least halfway certain that Spock was out of range. He rounded on Jim in frustration to see him staring at the desk, his blue eyes lacking all their usual mischief and charm.

"The second that ship's at warp, you're headed straight for the sickbay or I'll go up to the bridge and collect you myself."

Jim snapped out of his reverie and flashed a grin that clearly meant he was going to do everything in his power to avoid Bones for the entire fifteen hour journey. "Aye aye, captain."

* * *

Two hours later the crew was aboard the Enterprise at warp speed, on a direct course to the planet Acton. Prince Carmeleon was safely secured on deck three under the careful watch of both Starfleet security and his own bodyguards.

The crew had, of course, noticed the state of their captain, but as Spock observed they had chosen quite wisely not to mention it. Lieutenant Sulu had muttered something to the ensign Chekov, who shook his head with a furtive glance at the captain's chair. From there on the crew directed their focus on the mission, as was only appropriate.

Spock had very little to attend to at the helm, but occupied himself by monitoring all the readouts and data the ship produced. He was content to remain this way, listening to the hum of the ship, seated close enough to Nyota that he could hear her muttering insignificant translations under her breath. Spock knew it was only a matter of time before this peace was disrupted, but he relaxed for the five minutes it did.

"Captain."

The Vulcan recognized the sarcastic edge in Doctor McCoy's tone at once. It seemed that on this ship he was further adapting to sarcasm on a daily basis.

Kirk directed his eyes at the ceiling in impatience, or at least the eye that was not swollen.

When Kirk neglected to acknowledge him, McCoy cleared his throat loudly enough that several crew members turned to stare at him.

"Bones," said Kirk in what could be perceived as a cheerful tone. "Glad to see you keep your promises."

McCoy's expression was impressively threatening.

Resigned, the captain stood from his seat to exit the bridge. Spock was almost surprised by the lack of struggle it took for Kirk to cooperate, but it was clear to everyone on the bridge that McCoy's intervention was logical given the circumstances.

Kirk addressed him before he left. "Spock, take care of the bridge."

"Yes, Captain," Spock replied.

No more than three seconds after their departure through the turbolift, Sulu turned to Chekov. "So what happened to his face?"

"I told you, I don't know," the ensign replied.

"Oh, that's what you said?"

Uhura swiveled her chair to face the two men, her eyebrows raised in a mixture of exasperation and slight amusement. "And to think he almost went two weeks without getting sucker-punched."

"Zis happens often?" asked Chekov, exposing his naivety.

"Since the day I first met him."

Spock had been enlightened recently of this escapade, and raised an eyebrow recalling it. He could not help but think that perhaps the spectacle had, in some way, pleased Nyota, despite her vehement disapproval of the captain.

She exchanged a knowing look with Spock, who received it with his usual stoicism.

"Poor McCoy," said Sulu, shaking his head. Chekov laughed over the controls he was handling.

"Lieutenant Sulu, take the conn."

For the second time that day words spilled out of Spock's mouth unintentionally. He stood, the picture of deliberation and confidence, easily masking the irrationality of his movements. Without making any conscious decision to do so, he entered the turbolift in pursuit of Kirk and McCoy.

As he suspected, trouble was already brewing in the sickbay. He heard McCoy's voice as the door slid open.

"You're acting like a child," the doctor said, his voice clipped and impatient. "Tell me what you did."

"Why is it always something I did?" Kirk grumbled immaturely. Spock recognized his attempt to lighten the conversation and mollify McCoy, but he also recognized that it was not working by any means.

"If you don't sit still and let me see your ribs and that shoulder, I'm going to sedate you and you're not going to like it."

From the entrance Spock had a clear view of the pair, but neither of them noticed his presence. He witnessed the panic on Kirk's face, and then it was gone in a flash—McCoy had not seen. Spock knew without a doubt then that McCoy had never discovered the scars, and that perhaps Kirk's aversion to medicine stemmed from the fear of this happening.

"If you jab one more of those infernal hypos into my neck, I swear—"

"Jim! Don't make me ask again!"

Kirk was backed up into a wall, clearly about to lose the battle against the hypo, when Spock stepped forward, sparing the captain for reasons he could not readily produce.

"Heya, Spock!" Kirk exclaimed, successfully distracting McCoy and ducking out of his reach.

"You again," the doctor hissed.

Spock could think of no logical explanation for venturing to the sickbay alone. "Lieutenant Sulu had a question that concerned you, Captain," he said after a moment, which was not entirely a lie, for Sulu had wondered aloud about Kirk's face, after all.

Kirk slinked out before McCoy could catch up, jumping into the turbolift. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll catch up with you later, Bones." The door slid closed, leaving the doctor and the first officer alone in the empty sickbay.

At once McCoy looked positively murderous, and Spock had to admit that he was more than a little wary of the hypo still poised in the man's hand.

* * *

Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone :)

uphill09

* * *


	3. Chapter Three

"You realize that it was a miracle I even got him in here in the first place, and now you've gone and ruined it? For Christ's sake, Spock, you couldn't have waited three more minutes?" Bones fumed, slapping the hypo down on the examining table in a justified huff.

"I apologize if I have inconvenienced you, Dr. McCoy."

The Vulcan's show of respect only further antagonized Bones, whose muscles had tensed to stop the words "oversized leprechaun" from slipping off his tongue. He turned away from Spock, busying himself with cleaning up the wrappers of the few bandages he'd managed to make use of.

"Brat wouldn't even take off his shirt," he ranted, knowing Spock probably considered his complaints very low priority and interest. He continued anyway—served Spock right. "It's like he stays up all night just concocting more plans to annoy me. How the hell am I supposed to treat fractured ribs if he won't even take off his blasted shirt? Damn it, I'm a doctor, not a magician."

"Perhaps the captain has a logical reason behind his actions," Spock offered unhelpfully.

The oddity of this statement struck Bones, and he stopped in the middle of clearing up the table, abandoning the wrappers. "You know something I don't, huh?" he accused suspiciously.

Spock's expression did not change. "More than a few things, doctor," he said, which was about the closest show of impertinence Bones had ever observed from him.

This nearly confirmed Bones's theory that Spock, however perplexingly, was somehow entangled in Jim's mess. Why else would he have just happened to interfere twice in one day? It was against Spock's nature to do anything he deemed "unnecessary," and practically busting an adolescent captain out of sickbay was certainly not necessary to any degree.

It was time to play hardball. "You know that whatever is wrong with him may compromise his ability to lead this vessel," Bones said bluntly. Before the Vulcan could so much as open his mouth to reply, the doctor demanded, "Did you have something to do with this?"

One of Spock's eyebrows raised in what appeared to be mild offense. "No, Doctor McCoy, I can assure you that I was not in any way responsible for what happened."

"But you know what happened." Bones had no substantial reason to believe this, but in his experience it was always easier to extract a confession by bluffing.

Spock merely stood for a moment. "Yes."

"Well?"

"I am certain that it is not my place to say anything."

"Bullshit!" Bones exclaimed, feeling the blood rush into his face. "I'm the CMO of this ship and if you know something about the well being of one of the crew members I am directly responsible for—"

"According to Starfleet regulation four thirteen oh seven—"

"Don't you cite regulation at me, commander!" Bones interrupted loudly. "As first officer of this ship, you are morally obligated to tell me what you know."

"I am also morally obligated to the captain."

For a moment Bones gawped at him like a fish out of water. Four days ago Spock and Kirk had bickered for an hour over the best method to communicate with the hostile population of a nearby planet, and suddenly Spock was "morally obligated" to keep Kirk's secrets? Bones knew Spock must be capable of compassion to some degree, but this was absolutely ridiculous. In fact, Bones wasn't sure he believed it, except that the Vulcan was standing just as erect and serious as ever in the entrance of his sickbay.

Bones struggled to keep his voice level. There was no point in overreacting, because Bones knew he would only feel stupid when Spock remained stoic as ever.

"Is this something I need to know or not?" he asked.

Spock considered the question. "Your knowledge of the event is not crucial," he answered. When Bones didn't respond, Spock added, "However, if you are insistent on pressing the matter, I would advise you to ask the captain himself."

"Gee, that'll work."

"I am not attempting to thwart you in any way, doctor."

"Well, you sure as hell aren't making my life any easier."

* * *

From his chair on the bridge Kirk observed his crew at work. Even a month after the successful destruction of the Narada, reality still struck him in the oddest moments as if he had only just been put in command moments before. It was surreal to think about. Their vessel was distinguished not just by the age of their captain, but by the age of the crew and even the ship: it was the newest Federation vessel and none of the crew members were over the age of thirty-five.

They really defied all that was natural. Sometimes it seemed to Kirk like it was too good to be true.

But then the nagging worry bit at him again: What if something went wrong? Whatever happened would be his fault, because at the end of the day he was solely responsible for making the decisions that affected the lives of the other crew members. And they were all so young, had so much life in them. An advantage, because that vitality was channeled straight into the success of their few but effective missions, but also terrifying to think about.

Kirk was only twenty-five years old. Three years ago he'd been sitting in a prison overnight for instigating another brawl in a bar, and now he was in command of hundreds of lives and an entire Starfleet ship.

It was the quiet moments like this that Kirk was most unsure of his ability to command. When the chaos began and Kirk could feel the urgency of a situation stinging in his blood, he always knew instinctively how to handle the situation—the answers came without question. He was always so sure of himself.

But what was he supposed to do when nothing was happening? He had barely ever observed another captain at work. Maybe five minutes of watching Pike, and that was it. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to act?

He'd never admit these insecurities out loud, of course. The bravado was safely in check as always, and he made a good show of looking like he always had a plan. But one of these days . . .

Kirk shuddered. It made him glad that Spock was aboard, because at least if all else failed he'd have "logic" to fall back on.

He turned his gaze over to Sulu, remembering that Spock mentioned that the lieutenant had a question for him. None ever came, which led Kirk to presume that Spock might have actually lied to save his hide.

What had he done to deserve that?

He would have asked Sulu what his question was just to verify whether or not it was a lie, but Kirk couldn't suppress the feeling that he was an outsider on his own bridge. It felt like the crew was always talking among themselves casually until he walked in, and conversation ceased. It was unsettling. Kirk always did everything he could to put everyone at ease, so it wasn't because they were intimidated by him in any way. Kirk wondered if they resented his ascent to captain. He might have, if he were in their position.

Then again, they were all so young, too. Maybe they just didn't know how to act, either.

"Captain," said Uhura suddenly. "Deck Four reports an unauthorized person allegedly assaulted a crew member—"

"Seal deck four, set phasers to stun," said Kirk. This he could handle. "Bring up the vid."

"The vids are scattered, captain . . ." Uhura trailed off, and Kirk saw that both she and Chekov were struggling with the controls to the security cameras.

"Someone has eenstalled a seestem to override our security codes, keptin," Chekov reported.

"Notify all decks that there has been a security breach."

Chekov nodded, fingers flying over the control screen.

Kirk bit the inside of his cheek. He only knew one person besides himself who had enough knowledge of security breaches to override a system code as complicated as Starfleet's security vids. There were individual encryption keys on each camera, randomized to prevent any recognizable patterns, so that for each device there were over two hundred million potential codes protecting it.

It was possible, however, to modify the properties of a standard tricorder and break the codes to tamper with the individual cameras. Under pressure it would take Kirk no more than five minutes.

It had been an hour since the ship left Starbase 1, and Kirk estimated that that was just the amount of time it would take Sam to override their systems and climb aboard.

"The vids in Deck Four have been disabled since take-off," Uhura reported. "Communications, too—" She whirled at Kirk, her expression incredulous. "Aren't you even the least bit concerned?" she snapped.

He was almost grateful that she did, because the whole "captain" thing was getting too formal for his tastes.

"Just royally pissed off," Kirk muttered. If communications were down he'd have to head down to deck four and deal with Sam himself. "Sulu, take the conn."

* * *

Spock, in an attempt to remedy McCoy's frustration, remained in sickbay after Bones retreated in anger. It took only a moment to locate the self-sealing bandages, which should be sufficient enough for Kirk's needs. He took a package and entered the turbolift, when he heard the adolescent voice of Ensign Chekov echo throughout the ship.

"Notifying all decks, there ees an unidentified intruder aboard. Sealing Deck Four."

From experience Spock knew it would take at least ten seconds to seal the entire deck. He specified "Deck Four" in the lift and hoped that the intruder was unaware of this discrepancy.

Just as Spock had calculated, the lift opened to the pandemonium of security rushing in with phasers and motion sensors. He stepped calmly past the agitated Starfleet personnel and surveyed the condition of the deck.

An all too familiar man in a red uniform tried to run in with the rest of the pack, but Spock swung his arm out in front of the man's chest and sent him sprawling to the floor.

In a swift motion Spock set his phaser at the intruder's back. "George Samuel Kirk."

Just then Chekov's voice projected over the intercom. "Communications to Deck Four back on line."

Spock spoke clearly into his communicator. "Spock to Ensign Chekov, I have apprehended the intruder."

* * *

By the time Kirk made it down to Deck Four, Sam was already pinned by two security officers and attempting to writhe out of their grip. A few feet away stood Spock, who was on the receiving end of whatever Sam was spitting out.

"Communications back on line?" Sam was absolutely indignant. "That's impossible, I made sure it was—"

"What, you didn't anticipate a precocious seventeen-year-old up in the bridge to crack your infiltration codes?" Kirk interrupted loudly. He walked forward confidently, making sure not to expose his discomfort with the situation in front of the crew. He was determined to act like a captain.

Sam quit struggling and his jaw hardened visibly. He spat out blood. "What are you gonna do, little brother, tattle on me to Starfleet?"

More than a few heads turned in surprise, but Kirk ignored them. He stared at Sam unyieldingly. "Lock him up on Deck 28."

"The brig?" Sam demanded. His eyes met Kirk's and the message was clearer between the brothers than it ever could have been in words. Kirk was deadly serious.

Sam's chuckle was quiet, but it grew into a mocking laugh. "You know I'll bust out of there in the hour. You know it's pointless! What the hell do you think you're gonna prove, locking me up?" Security was dragging him away, but he continued ranting—Sam always liked to have the last word.

So Kirk let him have it. He turned his back on Sam and made his way to the bridge without so much as a sidelong glance.

* * *

Thanks so much for the reviews! I promise to try and update as soon as I can.


	4. Chapter Four

When Spock reentered the bridge looking as immaculate and calm as ever, Uhura withdrew a breath she had not been aware of holding. Despite Spock's formal manner both Sulu and Chekov also relaxed slightly in their seats, somehow reassured by his presence. If he hadn't said anything yet, they could assume the intruder was locked up appropriately and no longer posed a threat.

Spock made brief eye contact in acknowledgment of her. Her lips twitched ever so slightly in return—neither of them felt the need for much more of an exchange in the company of other crew members.

She noticed that Chekov was leaning forward in his seat expectantly, his face lit up in boyish curiosity. It was clearly taking him a conscious effort to wait for Spock to speak before asking what the disturbance was. Her eyes flitted from the boy to Spock, silently communicating her amusement, and Spock addressed the crew.

"It was a single intruder behind the communications jamming, and he has been appropriately locked on Deck 28," Spock informed them.

"Who was it?" Uhura asked, knowing that Sulu and Chekov might hesitate to do the same.

"A human male, operating a tricorder. He stowed on board impersonating a security officer."

Uhura scowled. "How is that possible? Entrance to the ship requires DNA recognition and individual passcodes—"

"As the captain deduced, the security officer he impersonated is on board, albeit unconscious in a utility closet. The intruder used the man's prints to surpass the recognition test, and tampered with a tricorder to retrieve the passcodes."

"And he did all this unnoticed?" Uhura clarified, disbelieving. After all, the U.S.S Enterprise was supposed to be a show of the best security Starfleet and modern science had to offer. The fact that a man working alone managed to hitch a ride on their starship undetected not only reflected poorly on the system, but reflected poorly on the new crew responsible for maintaining it.

Spock nodded. "It appears so. The captain has instructed security and communications to examine all scenarios through which he might have gained entry."

"Commander," Chekov asked uncertainly, "if the intruder managed to surpass our security systems to get on board, how do we know he won't break the passcodes to the brig?"

"Because I'll be resetting them," answered Kirk—no, _Captain_ Kirk, Uhura thought, suppressing the gag reflex that threatened to set off at the idea of him in charge. As he walked in Uhura wondered how a man could possibly ooze so much arrogance in the simple action of entering a room and sitting in a chair. Especially when, by the look of his face, he'd engaged in some serious (and most likely unnecessary) fist-fighting before stumbling on board.

Uhura did not even bother to keep the edge of irritation out of her voice. "And what makes you so confident in your ability to thwart a security breach this large?" she asked, just daring him to mention that she hadn't added "captain" at the end of the question.

His reaction was even more infuriating. He smirked at her is his usual patronizing manner and said, "Believe me, Lieutenant," he said, "I can handle anything he tries to pull."

She raised her eyebrows speculatively, turning to Spock, but he looked uncharacteristically preoccupied. It was unlike him to let Kirk have complete control of anything, let alone an issue as high risk as this, and yet he did not seem the least perturbed by the captain's course of action.

Chekov and Sulu seemed similarly concerned by Kirk's potentially deluded certainty, so Uhura took it upon herself to question him.

"You're hardly an expert in the algorithms behind the passcodes, security wasn't even one of your specialties at the academy."

"Maybe not at the academy."

"You're depending on street smarts to keep the entire crew safe from this threat?" she shot at him.

Kirk pouted in his way that had infuriated her since day one. The expression was more exaggerated than usual with the decoration of cuts and bruises on his face. "You know I wouldn't handle the codes myself unless I was completely confident in my ability. I'd never compromise the crew."

"Then let Chekov do it," said Uhura, ignoring the Russian boy's flinch at hearing his name dragged into the argument.

"Chekov doesn't know how he thinks."

"And you _do_?" Uhura nearly laughed. She was uncomfortably aware that Spock was staring at her from behind Kirk's chair, but she was determined to hold her ground and did not meet his eye.

To her surprise Kirk stiffened, just slightly. "Well, yes, seeing as I taught him everything he knows about operating a standard tricorder."

He was going to make her wait for the answer and she knew it, so she bit back her tongue even though she was trembling with the urge to shake him.

"He's my brother."

Great, thought Uhura cynically, an exasperated huff escaping her. Another bullheaded Kirk stowing aboard and interfering with a high priority mission—that was _exactly_ what she needed right now.

* * *

An hour later Kirk excused himself, leaving Spock to oversee the very little activity stirring on the bridge. As the doors to the turbolift closed he had the unsettling that the crew would start talking amongst themselves at once, relieved that he was gone. It was the sort of frustration that Kirk could not pinpoint—he prided himself in not giving a damn what people thought of him, but knowing that his crew wasn't comfortable with him was gnawing at him every time he left the bridge.

For a moment Kirk neglected to specify a level on the turbolift. He leaned back against the wall, heaving a sigh that brought a twinge of pain he could no longer ignore. Bones had been right about one thing—something ugly had happened to his ribs, and he was afraid that if he stayed in the bridge much longer, somebody might notice.

He needed just a moment to collect himself, was all. He buried his head in his hands and took that moment, relishing the solitude of it, knowing that he was completely alone and untouchable in the lift. Not even Bones could bother him here.

Then he braced himself. Uhura was right. He was in no position to take the threat of Sam lightly, and he had no intention of doing so. He hit the button for Deck 28 and the lift whirred back to life, plummeting down to the brig.

Just as he suspected, Sam was sitting in a corner of his cell, his mouth drawn tight and his body rigid in anger. Five security officers stood at guard outside the bars somewhat anxiously, as he was their first and only detainee aboard the Enterprise. Sam was completely ignoring him, but when Kirk entered his head jerked up.

"So it's the Captain's job to set the passcodes now?" Sam sneered, obviously aggravated that he had not been able to break past them.

"You enjoyed them, then?" asked Kirk, but the humor was void in his tone. He stood straighter than he normally would, kept his jaw tighter.

Sam spat on the floor of his cell, turning away from Kirk in disgust. "So you're coming down here to rub it in my face."

"No," said Kirk sternly, "I'm coming down here to ask what the hell is wrong with you."

"Aw, lighten up, Skid—"

"Is this some sort of a joke to you?" Kirk demanded. "Do you think this is funny? Because ordinarily, the protocol for this situation would entail a captain marooning a prisoner on the nearest Federation planet to wait for Starfleet to pick them up and deposit them in the appropriate penal colony. You want ten years of hard labor on Mars?"

"Shove it, we both know you'd never do that to me."

"Don't count on it," said Kirk. "You lost any mercy you might have received from me this morning. The only reason we haven't shipped you off is that given the priority of the mission, we don't have time to waste dropping out of warp to get rid of you."

He knew he'd struck Sam unexpectedly then, because his brother's eyes, a dark blue that contrasted with his own, met his in disbelief.

"No matter how great you think you are, you can't pretend you weren't a part of our family."

Kirk didn't react. He was careful not to so much as ball his fists at his sides. He focused on breathing in and out, blocking out the pain of it, ignoring Sam's pathetic attempts to goad him.

"Who's pretending?" he asked hoarsely. Kirk could try his whole life to forget where he came from, but he knew that the moment he closed his eyes or looked in a mirror or—

"You chose Starfleet over us, then? You chose Starfleet instead of our mother?"

"Yes." He was honest. It was wrong of him to leave her when she was already so fragile, but at twenty-two years old he needed more than farm work and bar fights . . . It was selfish of him. He'd acknowledged and come to terms with it a thousand times over, but it didn't make it any less true. He recovered his wits and faced Sam. "You could have stayed too, but you didn't."

"She always loved you more," he said resentfully.

Kirk didn't deny it. She had loved him more, but then again, Kirk had never deliberately hurt her in all the ways Sam did. If Kirk lived to irritate their uncle and get a rise out of him, then Sam lived to disappoint their mother, fueled by some empty, unfulfilled desire to rebel against her. To get back at her for all the years she spent in Starfleet instead of in Iowa.

It hurt Kirk, too, but he never blamed her for what Frank did to him. She'd never known, and that was the way he wanted to keep it.

"I don't have to explain my actions to you."

"No, no, I think you do." Sam's voice was venomous. "We spent our whole lives hating Starfleet and all that it stood for, and you just up and leave home one night and enlist in the single entity that ruined our lives. Way to go, Skid, I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Sam, you don't understand—"

"What is there to understand? Starfleet's the reason our dad is _dead,_ the reason our mother was never home, the reason Frank could hurt you—"

Kirk felt the blood rushing into his face, and knew he was losing control of the conversation. He saw Sam's expression, so defensive and unforgiving from behind the bars, and he had to reorient himself—it was, after all, Sam behind those bars. So why did it suddenly feel like he was the prisoner, held captive here by Sam?

Three years had passed and Kirk owed him nothing. He had to remind himself that. He was a Starfleet captain now, dammit, and he didn't have time for screw-ups like Sam dredging up his old life and distracting him from what mattered. His responsibility laid in this ship and its crew alone.

So he took a deep breath and stood up, reclaiming his authority. "I came down here to ask you why you boarded this ship, Sam, and if you don't have an answer for me, then I don't have any more time to waste with you."

Carefully he averted his gaze away from Sam, unwilling to show any sign of weakness. He would not falter. With crisp, even steps, he boarded the turbolift again, slumping as the doors closed.

A hand stayed the sliding door, jamming it. It complied by opening, revealing none other than Bones.

Kirk closed his eyes and sighed, resigned. The turbolift took off and for a moment neither of them said a word.

"So how much did you hear?" Kirk finally asked lowly.

Bones raised his eyebrows at him, conveying a sort of emotion Kirk couldn't quite describe. Exasperation, mingled with pity. Kirk felt his stomach physically sink. Bones had been the first friend he'd ever made who didn't look at him that way. Seeing the doctor shake his head emphatically was like sitting in seventh grade algebra, his teacher shaking her head at yet another bruise on his cheek.

The doctor stood up tall, as if compensating for Kirk's slouch. "Enough," he said, and he firmly pressed the button that indicated the sickbay. Kirk did not protest.

* * *

Bones had never seen the kid look so somber in all their years training together. It didn't suit him—his usual roguish grin had slackened in misery, his shoulders were hunched, and his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. He'd spoken to his brother so rationally, so seriously, so . . . unlike himself. Bones could almost imagine the weight sinking on Kirk's shoulders as he internalized the prisoner's scathing remarks, absorbed them, and forced himself to reply with the composure of a Starfleet captain.

In the few moments of silence between them, Bones tried to make sense of what he'd heard. It seemed that neither of the Kirk boys had enjoyed a particularly happy childhood. But a few of the things his brother had mentioned agitated Bones . . . For instance, it was evident now that Sam was the one responsible for Jim's injuries from earlier. But there was something else, something about a Frank who had hurt Kirk—

Come to think of it, Kirk had mentioned an uncle named Frank. Bones's eyes widened in realization, but before he could consider the situation any further, Kirk rounded on him angrily.

"What the hell were you doing down there, Bones?" he snapped, shedding his calm exterior.

Bones noticed that Kirk's breathing was irregular. "I didn't know you had a brother," he said lightly, in a ineffective attempt to calm him down before the condition worsened.

"Bones!"

The doctor rolled his eyes. "I used the computer to locate you and drag you back to sickbay. I had no intention of eavesdropping."

Kirk clearly wasn't going to let him off that easily. "Oh, really? Because usually when someone doesn't mean to eavesdrop, they'll—oh, I don't know, clear their throats, or step out of the shadows or—oh." He clutched the side of one of the desks, pitching forward slightly on his feet. A gasp of pain escaped him.

Bones reached out to steady him and Kirk flinched noticeably. He withdrew his hand. "Sit down," he said, leading Jim over to one of the beds. "That's what you get, ignoring those ribs."

"Shut _up_," Kirk wheezed. Even as he sat there he fidgeted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking toward the door.

"Stay still," Bones ordered, unwrapping a sedative.

"You wouldn't," Kirk exclaimed. Bones knew him well enough by now to recognize the pain he was biting down.

"It's just a pain reliever," Bones lied, his back turned to Kirk so his friend wouldn't see the guilt flash across his face. "The fractures in your ribs are affecting your breathing. If you let this go on much longer, you'd have passed out on the bridge in a captain-sized heap."

The truth was, Bones needed to sedate him because it was the only way he'd be absolutely certain Kirk lay still long enough for him to wrap the kid up and check on his ribs. He only needed an hour, but he settled on a dose of sedatives that would knock an ordinary man out for a few more, knowing that even unconsciously Kirk would do everything in his power to complicate Bones's job even just the tiniest bit.

Jim tensed as Bones approached. "I don't need it."

"I'm CMO of this ship, I decide what you do and do not need, Jim."

"You're bossy. And mean," Jim decided, his eyes following the hypo warily.

"Yeah, well, you're a piece of work."

"Don't flatter me, Bones—"

Before Kirk could continue his sentence, though, Bones took the opportunity to jab the hypo into the captain's neck. Instantly he slackened, his eyelids drooping.

"What . . . Bones, you ass . . ."

With a soft thud against the mattress, Kirk was out.

Bones sighed, taking out his communicator. "McCoy to Commander Spock, I'm appointing you Acting Captain for the next four hours or so."

"May I ask what has happened to the captain?" The Vulcan replied.

Bones regarded the limp Kirk, whose face was still drawn into a scowl despite the sedative. "Nothing he didn't have coming for him," said Bones. He smirked slightly. "It seems that without your interference, Commander, I am more than capable of sedating the captain and holding him in sickbay."

The reply was standard and curt: "Indeed."

Spock was the first cut off communications. "Take _that_, hobgoblin," Bones muttered, satisfied that he'd won this round, at least.

Then he focused his attention back on Kirk, fully aware that, even sedated, the kid would make this anything but easy.

* * *

Thanks again for the reviews, I'm glad people are enjoying it and I love the suggestions :)

uphill09


	5. Chapter Five

On the bridge Chekov and Sulu were muttering excitedly about a game of poker they had apparently engaged the young Prince Carmeleon in the previous night, while every so often checking their respective padds and control screens to observe any change in the relatively safe journey. Uhura was monitoring frequencies on the planet Acton now that they were further in range, to verify that the civil war between the northern and southern poles was, in fact, in a cease-fire; judging by the look of uninterrupted concentration between her brows, Spock knew that she had found no reason for doubt, but appreciated that she had thought to check.

Spock found himself yet again in a position at the helm with very little to do. Had he not been told to take the conn, he might have ventured down to speak with the Prince, as he was fascinated by the concept of their alleged medicinal dirt. But it seemed inappropriate to abandon his post at the bridge a second time in one day, especially given the circumstances the previous time.

He found himself in a half-meditative state, recalling various texts from memory and sifting through them with a new mindset. His concentration faltered midway through a work of Shakespeare and he found himself, unexpectedly enough, looking into the face of none other than Jim Kirk.

It was not a memory Spock readily visited, as the thought of it made him tense as if he had never quite shaken off the intensity of their fight. But he remembered in such detail Kirk's provocations and insults, the heat of the blood compelling his arms to swing, to hurt, to kill . . .

The memory was exaggerated, Spock knew. Clouded by the rage he had felt. The colors of it seemed significantly brighter, the noises significantly softer, and the sequences of events more pronounced and choppy than those of an ordinary memory. Spock may never admit it out loud, but he felt a lingering shame for his actions. On a sub-conscious level he knew Kirk had deserved it, and certainly expected it, but it was Spock who had allowed himself against all better judgment to lose control and resort to human frustrations.

It was unlike him and it unsettled him still. But as the memory crept back into Spock's vision he felt not his shame, but recounted instead the primal fear in Kirk's eyes as he delivered the first blow with uncanny clarity. Spock recalled that the cadet had barely flinched, his stance already set in defense, but the fear in his expression was more pronounced than it had been in any cadet's endurance of the Kobayashi Maru simulation.

Spock tensed his fist as if he could still feel his fingers wrapped around Kirk's throat, suffocating him. Given Kirk's build and stamina he had known exactly how many seconds it would take before his skin would suffer cyanosis, before he would die from lack of oxygen. He pressed on, and despite his incapacitating fury he counted the numbers out, relishing each one, knowing that every small interval brought him closer to ending the torment Kirk had inflicted on him once and for all.

Sarek had said his name, but Spock was determined to hold Kirk there as he struggled, his hands uselessly prying Spock's away from his throat. Spock might have killed him if Kirk had not so suddenly slackened against the control panel. His eyelids drooped and the blue of his eyes peered out hazily, reflecting no hatred or self-pity, but acceptance. He was letting Spock kill him.

The shock of victory was what spurned his hand away from Kirk, only sixteen and a half seconds before his inevitable death.

Spock could not decided whether or not Kirk had accepted death in that moment, or if in some way he had trusted Spock to let go. An act of faith, his elder counterpart would have called it.

It was more than he had deserved in that moment.

"Commander," said Uhura, a scowl deepening the lines of her brow. Her brown eyes snapped up to meet his. "There appears to be an area of approximately one square mile near the Southern pole of Acton that has blocked all communications, incoming or out."

Before Spock could react he heard Doctor McCoy's voice on his communicator. "McCoy to Commander Spock, I'm appointing you Acting Captain for the next four hours or so."

Spock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Kirk had been absent from the bridge for some twenty minutes, but Spock had assumed that the captain had left to take care of matters in the brig. It was against his nature to relinquish himself to sickbay.

"May I ask what has happened to the captain?" he asked as noncommittally as possible.

Uhura started muttering to herself, typing rapidly. "I'm trying to gage the source . . ."

"Nothing he didn't have coming for him. It seems that without your interference, Commander, I am more than capable of sedating the captain and holding him in sickbay."

Spock withheld the sigh that threatened to escape him. There was no chance of sparing Kirk from the inevitable now.

"Indeed," he said abruptly, cutting off communications.

"I'm picking up fragments of conversation, all in Actonese. Whatever they're using to block communications, it's just crude enough to block only half of their exchanges. Where's Kirk?" asked Uhura, with a recognizable twinge of annoyance.

"Captain Kirk is in sickbay with Dr. McCoy," Spock reported. He willed himself not to succumb to distraction. "The fragments, lieutenant?"

Uhura cleared her throat, looking over the notes she had typed into the screen. "From what I can understand, the area is meant to serve as a secret post for the southern pole's military. It sounds as though they are not particularly keen on the cease-fire." Her jaw set in frustrated and she fiddled desperately with the channel knobs at the comm station. "I'm losing the signals, but I picked up something about 'negotiations' . . . I think they might be planning to interfere."

Without wasting another moment on contemplation, Spock activated the intercom in the captain's chair. "Commander Spock to Deck Three, please send Prince Carmeleon to the bridge."

* * *

Bones knew that someone must have briefed him on a situation like this sometime during his years of med school. Entire lessons were devoted to handling abuse. Back at civilian hospitals he'd dealt with cases of it weekly, without batting an eyelid.

But this was his friend, not just a faceless stranger. This was Jim Kirk. This was the kid he drank with on the weekends at the Academy and mocked openly and dammit, this was the kid whose big mouth prevented made him the least-subtle secret-keeper in all of the Federation planets.

Bones thought back on all the instances he'd had to patch Kirk up, and realized with a start that he had never once seen his back. No matter what the injuries were Kirk would fidget and complain and eventually charm his way out of Bones's grasp. Kirk never failed to exasperate him with his aversion to all things concerning medicine, but it had never once occurred to Bones that there was an underlying issue beneath the act.

His gaze flitted toward the thin scars that ran from Kirk's lower back to his shoulders, and Bones repressed a shudder. How could he not have known? He was a doctor, for God's sake, and he was Jim's _friend_.

It shouldn't have surprised him so much. Bones sat down in one of the chairs, piecing together all of Kirk's irregularities. After their first shuttle ride together Jim had never willingly spoken of Iowa again, even when Bones himself had rattled incessantly and drunkenly about his ex-wife and the divorce. Kirk never called home. He had always bunked with Bones during the summer and Christmas holidays, claiming that San Francisco night life was too great to pass up for a farm. Hell, he listed his "emergency contacts" for Starfleet medical records as Bones and Uhura—Uhura, for God's sake, and it was no secret that she hated Jim's guts.

Kirk had done anything and everything to cut himself off from his past, and Bones had thought nothing of it all this time.

Who would do this to a _kid_? Obviously the scars were old—Bones couldn't tell exactly what had caused them, but they'd healed a long while ago, and healed badly, at that. The scarring might have been prevented had Kirk sought medical attention. Had someone prevented him?

Nearly twenty minutes ago Bones had sedated Kirk, and nearly fifteen minutes had passed since he'd taken off his shirt to wrap his ribs. And despite all his seminars and classes on remaining professional and detached in regards to patients, Bones could not wrap his brain around the cruelty inflicted on Kirk. As a doctor he was obligated to treat the patient and leave him to rest until the sedatives wore off. But as Jim's friend . . .

God, he knew Kirk was a troublemaker, but nobody, not even someone as reckless and foolhardy as Kirk, deserved this.

Bones sighed and buried his face into the palm of his hand. "God," he muttered uselessly. He'd spent years fixing Jim up . . . but he couldn't fix this. That was the worst of it. That was why Bones was losing control of the situation—no amount of expertise or experience could erase the scars, and he couldn't bring himself to accept it.

The doctor took another deep breath and recollected himself. His responsibility right now was to treat Kirk as a patient—as difficult as it was going to be. He retrieved the bandages and grimly set to work.

* * *

Chekov felt his ears reddening when Prince Carmeleon entered the bridge through the turbolift. For all of his remarkable genius, somehow the Prince, a mere three years older than him, had trumped him and Sulu at every game of poker they'd played their last night of shore leave. This was particularly shaming, because the Russians invented poker, for the love of transwarp beaming.

"You summoned me?" the prince asked in a clipped accent. He stole a moment to smirk at Chekov, who raised his eyebrows indignantly in response.

Truth be told, Chekov regretted that Carmeleon (who he and Sulu had drunkenly dubbed "Leo" after a few unnecessary rounds of vodka) would be leaving soon. It was nice to have someone his age on board who met his level of intellect. Not to mention that Leo's accent made Chekov feel less awkward about his own. Chekov had to constantly keep his speech in check because if he talked too fast, Uhura would have to stop and translate for the rest of the crew, which was more embarrassing than being the only man on the Enterprise with an inability to grow facial hair.

"Lieutenant Uhura was checking the frequencies for any abnormalities when she came across what appears to unidentified band of the southern pole's militia. They have attempted rather unsuccessfully to block communications, but she managed to decipher enough to deem them a threat to the negotiations," reported Spock with his usual precision.

Leo took a moment to absorb this. "I see," he said. "But there is no evidence that the rest of the southern pole allies themselves with them?"

Uhura shook her head. "As far as I can see, it's only the one base. The rest of the planet seems to be adhering to the cease-fire."

The prince took a deep breath. "Then we must proceed with negotiations."

"Would that be wise?" One of the security officers, who Chekov had barely acknowledged until now, asked the young man. He was Actonese and devoid of any Starfleet-issued clothing.

Leo's jaw set in determination. "It must be known that I am fully prepared to make peaceful negotiations, despite this setback. If I fail to return it will encourage suspicion and doubt from both sides. I trust that the prince of the southern pole will meet at the location we set unarmed."

Chekov expected the commander to argue. The situation was unsafe, and whatever band was hiding in the south clearly had hostile intentions. Surely he wouldn't let Leo just waltz down into a potential ambush. Even Chekov wasn't naïve enough to believe that the other prince would agree to a peaceful meeting.

"May I suggest you allow Starfleet security to accompany you?" said Spock, who was choosing not to voice his protests if he possessed any.

For a moment Chekov scowled, but then he caught himself. He did not want to appear disrespectful, but he objected to this idea vehemently.

Where was the captain? Chekov was certain Captain Kirk would not allow this to happen. It may be against some little known Starfleet code to deny someone of Leo's diplomatic status return to his home planet, but Captain Kirk would never allow him to take such a risk without making him seriously consider the consequences.

Commander Spock followed the rules, which usually Chekov admired. Not in this instance.

Leo visibly hesitated at Spock's proposal. "That won't be necessary, Commander. I'm concerned Starfleet presence would only intimidate the southern negotiators and prompt suspicion."

"We could dispatch unarmed Starfleet personnel," Spock continued.

"I'll go!" Chekov offered impulsively. He braced himself, waiting for someone to deny him, but Captain Kirk was still in sickbay. A few gazes lingered on him, and Sulu rolled his eyes.

"I'll go, too," said the pilot.

The prince smiled at his poker buddies. "It's settled, then. I'll enter the negotiations accompanied by the pair of them and my own two bodyguards. How long until we arrive?"

"Approximately eleven hours," Sulu answered.

A small ping resonated from Uhura's station. Chekov glanced over to see that an incoming message from Starfleet, marked "urgent" and addressed to the captain. Under the circumstances Chekov did not blame the lieutenant for opening it herself. Nobody else on the bridge seemed to notice, still engaged with the prince in preparations.

So Chekov was the only one who witnessed Uhura's eyes widening in apparent shock as she read the contents.

"What ees eet?" asked Chekov, leaning over to her station.

"Nothing," she snapped, erasing the message from her screen. The way she bit at her lip suggested otherwise. Chekov was by no means adept at understanding women, but it was clear that the contents of the message upset her.

In an attempt to be sensitive, Chekov said quietly, "What's wrong?"

Uhura rebuffed him instantly. "Listen, Chekov, it really isn't any of your business. Leave it alone." Then she stood up and turned away abruptly, her long hair swishing like an angry whip behind her.

Chekov couldn't help but feel stung. Uhura had an impatient streak, but she'd never so much as raised her voice to him in their past month on the Enterprise. He sighed, supposing he'd had it coming.

Still, he couldn't help wonder what could possibly be so urgent about some place in Iowa when the Enterprise was mid-warp on a high priority mission.

* * *

WOW! Thanks so much for the response, everyone! It makes me so happy :)

uphill09


	6. Chapter Six

Before Kirk was even fully conscious he knew something was wrong, because he never slept on his back. Even as a kid it had made him feel exposed, as if he were more vulnerable to the imaginary monsters in the closet, or the real one downstairs. So before he opened his eyes he was already disoriented and anticipating that whatever situation he was waking to was not in his favor.

Then full awareness of the situation came all at once, as if it had been shot into him like one of Bones's dastardly hypos. He gasped and shot up from the mattress, opening his eyes to the sickbay.

It was empty. Kirk took advantage of the moment to try and adjust to the impossibility of the circumstances, wracking his head to remember how the hell he'd wound up unconscious in the Enterprise's only hell.

_Bones_, he remembered vaguely. His ribs had been hurting, and Bones had . . . oh, _fuck_.

He touched his chest and felt the telltale bandages wrapped around him, realizing in slow horror what must have happened. If Bones had knocked him out and fixed him up, it could only mean that Bones had seen. Now he _knew_.

Kirk thought he might be sick at the idea of it. He pressed his head between his hands, forcing himself to stay calm, but the indignity of it all was too overwhelming to set aside. His breath came in gasps that protested against the bandages, stretching his aching ribs. He didn't notice, still frozen on the bed in disbelief.

The room around him seemed considerably smaller, as though the walls were pressing against him, trapping him. He braced himself against it and tried to breathe evenly. Tried to think reasonably. It didn't have to mean anything, right?

Where could he go? Even if he left the sickbay now, he'd never really escape from this. Bones would always know. It was as if Bones had become a vessel for all the terrible things that he'd run from, because now every time he so much as passed the doctor in the hallway he'd remember that Bones knew his secret. That it wasn't even a secret anymore, now that someone on board the very ship he was trying to lead knew the truth.

And it wasn't just someone—it was Bones. His best friend, and the only person in the galaxy who matched Kirk in pigheadedness. The doctor wasn't going to just let this go.

Kirk thought he heard footsteps and his shoulders jumped up involuntarily. He whipped his head from side to side, searching, but nobody was there. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say the words out loud to himself, just to convince himself that he was alone, but all that escaped him was another gasp.

_Calm down_. He heard the voice in his head, and it wasn't his own. It was young and bitter and full of regret. _Just calm down, Jim, he's gone_.

"Sammy . . ." Kirk muttered under his breath.

_He took the car. He won't be home the rest of the night, just calm down. _

Kirk squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. Bones had only been trying to do his job. There was no way he could have known what it was Kirk had been so deliberately hiding from him all this time. His actions, though unorthodox, were probably reasonable enough. He was CMO of the ship and he had authority that Kirk himself would never have.

All the logic in the world, though, didn't suppress Kirk's urge to scream at Bones for what he'd exposed.

"Jim?"

Bones entered and took him by surprise. He flinched noticeably, and then surprised himself with his sudden inability to look the man in the eye.

"How're you feeling," he said, more a statement than a question.

Kirk noticed that he was keeping his distance, purposefully not approaching him. His words were too casual—as if he were forcing them to sound relaxed, as if their usual familiarity was strained.

It was all the confirmation Kirk needed.

"Jim . . ."

There—right there. He heard it in Bones's voice: pity. As if he could share in Kirk's shame, as if he could possibly understand enough to level with him. It was the same condescension he'd gotten from every teacher, every doctor, every would-be savior in his life who did too little, too late.

He didn't want this from Bones. He wanted Bones to be his friend and nothing more.

"Don't even start," Kirk said quietly, with none of his usual playfulness. He looked at his hands so he wouldn't have to see Bones with his arched eyebrows and superior demeanor. Like all the other useless authority figures before him, he was already trying to "take control" of the situation.

"I'm sorry."

Kirk hadn't expected such an immediate apology, and this blew a dent in his anger. But not nearly enough of one.

"You're _sorry_?" His voice reached a decibel he was sure even Chekov's couldn't reach, but he was far too upset to think twice about it.

"I didn't know," Bones said reasonably, with the patronizing sort of calm one would use on a wounded animal.

It made Kirk want to lash out at him all the more, but then he'd only prove that Bones was right to treat him that way. He took a deep breath, his gaze skittering everywhere in the room but in Bones's direction. "Of course you didn't know. You weren't supposed to." He couldn't help the accusation from spilling out of him. "What kind of an asshole knocks someone out without any warning?"

"The kind that's been patching you up from your idiotic messes for years, Jim, so forgive me if I thought I knew what was best for you," Bones snapped back.

The edge in Bones's voice was almost gratifying to Kirk, who would rather get a rise out of someone than their sympathy any day.

"You lied about that hypo and I trusted you," Kirk growled, unwilling to budge from his point.

He saw that the comment dug at Bones. Kirk knew that despite the doctor's habitual cynicism he took his job seriously and hated the idea of breaking anyone's trust. But he recovered just as quickly as he'd reacted, saying, "Obviously not enough, or you'd have told me about those scars years ago."

"Why would I?" Kirk retorted petulantly. "So you could treat me like this? Like there's something wrong with me?" The words were jeering—he was just daring Bones to react. Kirk saw the line and was doing everything in his power to cross it.

But Bones just have an all-weary sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "Jim, whatever happened, it wasn't your fault—"

Kirk's eyes widened disbelievingly. He hadn't thought it would escalate to the whole let-me-play-therapist bullshit so fast. "Bones," he interrupted, trying his best despite himself not to say anything he'd regret too much, "don't stand there and give me that same talk I got over and over again, you're supposed be my friend—"

"Then as your _friend_, I am concerned for your welfare."

"And as my _friend_," Kirk shot back immediately, "I'm asking you to leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that."

"Yes, you can," Kirk insisted. He realized that Bones was stepping toward him, crossing the unspoken divide. Kirk seized up. "Please, just _forget_ it," he said desperately, before Bones came too close.

Bones mercifully seemed to understand his distress and stopped mid-stride. For a moment he didn't say anything and the silence bore down on them oppressively.

Kirk would never admit that he was relieved at what Bones said next.

"I'm going to give you a chance to calm down, and then we're going to talk about this like adults."

And then he left.

* * *

Uhura knew it was Spock at the door. She'd recognized his footfalls from all the way down the corridor, because he was the one crew member on the Enterprise whose shoes never shuffled on the deck, and certainly the only one who would knock three times with such precision.

"Come in," she said, not even bothering to conceal the anxiety in her voice. She heard Spock sliding the door open but didn't look up from her desk, where she had stacked all sorts of paperwork that was not at all urgent enough for her to use as an excuse for hiding in her quarters.

"Something has upset you."

She nodded, but didn't immediately offer an explanation. Anything Spock said to her on the matter would be something she had already considered herself in the thirty minutes she'd spent sulking, wondering what had possessed her to open that message.

Oh, she knew what had possessed her. Kirk had been out of commission, so Spock was in charge. He would have opened the message within five minutes if she hadn't done so herself, and then he would most likely have shared the contents of it with her. So she'd opened it thoughtlessly. It hadn't even occurred to her that it contained something personal. It hadn't even occurred to her that she would be burdened with the knowledge it contained.

His firm hand rested on her shoulder and she placed her own hand on top of his, appreciating the gesture. Spock thought he struggled to show his affection for her appropriately, but what he didn't understand was that even the slightest touch meant more to her than she could ever explain.

"Yes," she admitted. She lifted her eyes to look into his, open and undemanding. He was letting her decide whether or not she wanted to explain, and she was grateful for it, even though she knew she would never keep anything from him.

Uhura sighed, averting her gaze back to the desk. "When Prince Carmeleon was on the bridge a message came in from Starfleet."

She paused, bracing herself for a reaction—but then she remembered it was Spock, and he would hear her out to the end. So she swallowed and continued. "It was for Kirk, actually," she confessed, "but it was labeled 'urgent,' and I figured it was meant for whoever was Acting Captain. So . . . I opened it."

Her breath hitched. She didn't want to have to relay what she'd read, because it would force her to accept that it was the truth and that she was obligated to deliver the news. But at least if she told Spock she could share the weight of it. It meant somebody else would know, too. "It was about Kirk's mother."

"Is she alright?" asked Spock in his usual tonality, his hand still steady on her shoulder.

She extracted herself from his touch, standing up to face him. "They don't know," she said carefully, trying to recall the exact wording of the correspondence. "The message explained that Winona Kirk was assisting with an engineering seminar out in Iowa when an accident caused a stock of dilithium to react with antimatter. The explosion itself was relatively contained considering the circumstances, but Starfleet medical couldn't respond to any of the victims until they were certain there wasn't any excess deuterium gas leaked into the area." She shuddered. "She's in a coma."

Spock closed his eyes for a moment and absorbed this information. "But she may recover," Spock stated, and she saw the question in his dark eyes.

She felt tears rising in her cheeks. "I don't know, they didn't say," she said, unable to control the quake in her voice now. She leaned forward, burying her head in his chest. "And someone has to tell Kirk. I have to tell him," she sighed, and the weight of it settled squarely on her shoulders again. "They meant for him to know."

Spock wrapped his stiff arms around her in response, and then his embrace slowly relaxed around her. She felt so safe and comforted between those strong arms that she wondered how Spock could so often deny his human heritage.

"Would you rather I tell him?" he offered.

Uhura took a deep breath and stepped back, unwillingly separating herself from him. "No. I'll do it. I opened the message."

Spock didn't question her. He let her sink into his arms again and held her there for as long as she needed.

* * *

Kirk entered his quarters blindly, not even bothering the turn on the lights before he sank into his bed. His conversation with Bones echoed in his head against his will and he pressed a pillow to his face as if he could drown the thoughts out if he just tried hard enough.

Bones was different than all the others, and it scared him. He just didn't know why yet. And he sure as hell didn't have much time to consider it, because just then he realized he wasn't alone.

"Hey, Skid."

Kirk shut his eyes. "Sam," he acknowledged.

"Lights on," replied his brother, illuminating the room so that Kirk had a perfect view of his smug face.

Kirk could not figure out for the life of him what he had done to make God smite him so.

* * *

Sorry this update took a little longer than usual. I had to stop ignoring my homework XD. Plus I really wanted to get the first scene just right and it took a lot of edits.

Thanks so much for the reviews, guys, they make me feel warm and fuzzy inside!

uphill09


	7. Chapter Seven

Kirk knew he could summon security and have them wiping the floor with Sam's face in less than a minute, but he'd had enough dramatics in the past few hours to last him a lifetime. He laid back on the bed and settled into the wrongness of Sam's presence by ignoring the Starfleet-issue furniture and pretending they were back in Iowa in the room they'd shared as kids.

"I broke your codes."

"Aren't you proud of yourself," Kirk said wryly, sinking into the mattress.

"It didn't take too long."

"I was going to change it again, but I was . . . preoccupied," Kirk said. The understatement of the century, but Kirk was sure Sam wouldn't care enough to ask for clarification.

"Yeah, I guess that's what happens when you're captain of the god damn Enterprise," Sam said, without any good humor in his voice.

There was a stagnant pause in the conversation. Kirk couldn't explain it, but he knew that Sam wasn't going to swing at him again. It was in Sam's nature to fight like a maniac, and then pretend like it never happened by way of apology. It had happened so many times now that it was a tradition in its own right, and Kirk was confident that Sam's fuse had blown for the time being.

Exhaustion started to creep on Kirk and he felt the tension in his shoulders start to loosen and his eyelids start to slide. Sam sat on the foot of the bed.

"I remember when this thing was just some hunks of metal in the shipyard. Whenever we cut class we'd pass all those Starfleet suckers, baking in the sun . . ." Sam laughed bitterly. "And now look where we are."

Kirk let his eyes close. He remembered when he was fourteen, riding on the motorbike he'd fixed up, taking the long way to the stores just so he could stealthily pass the Starfleet compound one more time. He'd squint against the dust he'd kicked up and see the gleam of unfinished parts, and his fingers would twitch in that way they did when he was itching for trouble. But this was something greater—this was something prolific and beautiful, and it was practically in his own backyard, beckoning him . . .

But then the guilt was like acid in his mouth. It was Starfleet's fault that he came home to an unpaid electric bill and Uncle Frank every night, their fault that he would never know his father. It was what Sam had always reminded him any time he saw the lust for space in Kirk's eyes.

His words were muffled by his exhaustion. "You shouldn't be here."

Sam cackled again in response. "Neither of us should be."

"Sam . . ."

"You can drop the act, Skid, no one's here to tattle on you."

Kirk's jaw set in anger, and he forced himself to sit up and look Sam in the eye. "I'm serious, Sam. You assaulted Starfleet personnel and boarded this ship illegally. You think I'm putting on an 'act'?"

"You don't give me any credit. I grew up with you. I can tell you have no idea what the hell you're doing," Sam said, almost sympathetically. "You just had to crack the whip with me to show everyone what a big boss-man you are now—"

"It's not like that," Kirk insisted, but he felt his fists balling at his sides. This whole time he'd been denying it, trying to convince himself he was capable of being captain. After all, why else would Starfleet let him keep the job? If they thought he could do it, then he could do it.

With a twinge he remembered that he'd spent more than half his life distrusting Starfleet.

What if he was a mistake?

No, he wasn't going to entertain that thought. Sam was only trying to goad him. "It's not like that," he repeated, firmer this time. "It's been years. I've changed."

"I don't believe that."

"I never asked you to."

Sam sighed. "I don't want to fight with you, Skid," he said with a superior sort of exasperation in his voice.

Kirk laughed outright at the absurdity of the statement. "I'm sorry, my bad," he said, his tongue thick with sarcasm.

He thought for a moment that Sam would protest this remark, but instead he was met by another lengthy pause.

"So I blew it," said Sam finally, exhaling loudly.

Kirk braced himself, knowing that, not for the first time, the conversation was shifting out of his control. In all his experience, Sam had never once apologized or so much as admitted that he was wrong. It was yet another pattern Kirk recognized easily because it had played over so many times in his childhood. And while he could argue that maybe Sam had changed, too, his fist in Kirk's face this morning was more than enough indication that this wasn't true.

"But you're my brother, Jim. I've always had your best interests at heart."

The flinch was involuntary, but Kirk couldn't believe that Sam had actually gone so far as to call him "Jim." He hadn't done that since Kirk had wrecked up that old car and earned the nickname "Skid" in the first place.

"Do you think these people care what happens to you?"

"Of course they do," Kirk replied mechanically, without missing a beat. But Sam didn't reply right away, as if he were letting Kirk mull it over and come to a conclusion himself.

And Kirk couldn't help the unwelcome doubts that crept under his skin. He had lost the opportunities for building up crew morale and trust that all the captains before him had. Most captains had known their crew members for years and earned their respect before their ascent to command. But Kirk had bypassed all the usual conditions and been thrust into leading a crew that still thought of him as a barely-graduated cadet. Now that they were no longer in the grind of a crisis Kirk could see doubt flickering on their faces, and it worried him. But what worried him more was that nobody ever voiced these doubts. It was as if they were afraid to challenge him, afraid that he might argue their ideas off.

Admittedly Kirk had a bit of a temper, and had demonstrated that in front of the entire bridge on more than one occasion. But he needed someone to question him. If the crew would just admit to disagreeing with him, he'd have some idea of how to improve.

He was grateful that Spock, at least, never hesitated to voice his concerns. Despite their less-than-congenial relationship as captain and first officer, at least Kirk knew he could depend on Spock not to let his personal opinion of him interfere with his concern for logical course of action.

Sam took advantage of Kirk's silence. "Don't you get it? I'm all you've got now."

"No," Kirk said slowly, trying to come up with a legitimate defense.

"And when all this backfires and you realize what a mistake you've made, I'll still be here for you. I'll forgive you."

It struck Kirk how uncannily Sam looked like the old pictures of their father in that moment, his eyes relaxed and compassionate, his demeanor entirely confident. It was enough to make Kirk hesitate. It was enough to make Kirk question the loyalty of his crew, the legitimacy of his leadership.

The words sank in like a knife. Carefully Kirk slid off the bed and stood beside it, unable to break eye contact with Sam, as if he were a snake charmer.

"There was a time when I might have fallen for that crap," Kirk said simply. What he left unsaid was, _You weren't there when I needed you most_.

Then he took out his communicator.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, all traces of warmth in his face completely evaporated.

"Calling security. You're headed back to the brig, where you belong."

"What?"

Kirk dialed in the appropriate codes and looked up to see Sam on his feet. His face was contorted in fury and Kirk sensed that whatever small peace he thought he'd made between them was finished.

"This doesn't have to be difficult," said Kirk.

Sam came at him with a fist flying but Kirk caught it in his hand. Both men seemed surprised for a split second. Kirk felt something reminiscent of rage stirring in the arm that held Sam's still. It was hard to resist hurting Sam, to resist trying to make Sam feel even a fraction of what he had all those years in Riverside.

Instead he held Sam's fist firmly in mid-air. "You realize that I'm trained in five kinds of combat, all of them lethal," he said lowly.

"So you're gonna _kill _me?" Sam spat, mockery in his eyes.

"No," said Kirk, "I'm warning you that next time I won't hesitate—"

Kirk saw the punch coming from the other hand and he let it connect. The pain of it was nothing more than what he'd endured a hundred times before. The blow barely even budged him.

"—to do this," he finished, kneeing Sam in the gut and using a series of maneuvers that had his brother immobilized on the ground and moaning in less than five seconds.

"What the _hell _. . . you . . . how did you—"

Kirk crouched down to Sam's level. "You know why I think Frank never hurt you?" he asked, knowing Sam would be too incapacitated to respond. "Because even then he knew you were just like him."

* * *

Uhura knew the captain was out of sickbay and in his quarters because she'd checked his location on the ship's computer. Her heart was so full of dread that she could feel it physically hammering in her chest as she made her way to the turbolift and headed toward the lodging deck.

The doors to the lift shut and she scowled at herself. "Get a grip," she muttered. She'd handled worse than this before. In the relatively short number of years she'd spent translating messages she'd been forced to repeat all sorts of crude, depressing, and horrible things to her superiors.

None of them had been as personal as this. She'd reported news about distant Federation planets to near strangers then. But this was Jim, the arrogant, cocky, infallibly cheerful boy she'd spent three years at the academy with. The only reason she could stand him as a leader was that she knew that he could be serious and that he took bad news hard—part of that "no-win scenario" anthem he kept spouting off was evidence enough of that. She saw determination etched in every feature on his face, and she could tell that he understood the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

She would probably never admit it anytime soon, but she thought that Jim was just a weird enough combination of bullheaded and compassionate that he made a decent captain. She didn't want to put that in jeopardy by telling him about the message, but she knew that her obligation to Starfleet came first.

The turbolift stopped faster than she expected, and to her surprise four men from security bustled in, completely ignoring her. "Excuse me," she muttered under her breath. No one replied, but they all looked tense enough that she didn't bother engaging in conversation.

They exited the lift on same deck she was headed for, though, and practically led the way to the captain's quarters. Uhura quickened her pace to keep up with them.

"Captain," one of the men addressed Kirk. The group of them stopped so suddenly that she inadvertently slammed into someone's backside. Spluttering, she took a step back and assessed the situation.

Kirk was standing outside his quarters, grim-faced, with what appeared to be another bloody mark on his face. At his feet was a man with a striking resemblance to him, moaning melodramatically on the floor.

"Please escort him to the brig," Kirk said authoritatively.

Uhura was taken aback by the iciness of Kirk's blue eyes. Usually they were swimming with laughter, but now he was staring straight ahead, like . . . well, like a captain might.

She sidestepped out of security's way as they cuffed the man and set off with him. Kirk noticed her standing there and she watched those same eyes widen in surprise. "Uhu—Lieutenant Uhura," he amended, and she was almost relieved that he looked more like himself when he recognized her.

"Captain." She fidgeted. There was no appropriate way to do this. After a few moments of standing awkwardly she saw Kirk's lips twitch into a smirk, so she blurted out, "What the hell just happened?"

The smirk fell and she regretted her words immediately. This subject was apparently not suitable small talk to lead up to terrible news.

"Uh . . . look. I did set the codes. It was all squared away, and he never would have gotten out if Bones hadn't—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. What codes are you—?"

"The codes to the brig," Kirk said quickly, the guilt evident on his face. He looked like a boy who'd been caught sneaking out of the house after midnight. "It's my fault he got out. Bones hit me with one of those stupid hypos, and he cracked the codes while I was out and snuck out of the brig."

Normally she'd go ahead and nag at him for his irresponsibility, but she only stood there, wracking her brain for something to say. She knew more words in more languages than anyone she'd ever met, but she couldn't use any of them to form a coherent sentence at that moment.

"So that's your brother?"

He exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for a long while in anticipation of her reaction. "Yeah," he said quietly.

"So . . . what's he doing here?" Uhura asked, tentative.

Kirk shrugged. "Beats me," he said nonchalantly, but she could tell that the day was digging at him the wrong way.

A lump formed in her throat. "I guess it's hard. I mean, since he's your brother, and the rules might not . . . apply," she offered sympathetically.

His face hardened again. "Oh, no, they apply. As soon as we have an opportunity we're dropping out of warp and dumping him."

Uhura knit her eyebrows in confusion. "He's your brother."

Kirk nodded once, and that was all she needed to understand.

"Not a very good one, I guess," she added, clearing her throat awkwardly. Kirk had never so much as flinched in front of her and for years it had annoyed the hell out of her. She'd thought of him as static and predictable because of it. But now he was standing in front of her looking more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him and she had absolutely no means for handling it.

"It doesn't matter," Jim said a little too easily. "And I should head up to the bridge."

"Jim—"

He stopped and regarded her curiously.

The words were sticky and rough like sand on the roof of her mouth. A noise escaped her, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't tell him.

"I . . . just . . ." She took a deep breath and recollected yourself. "I just wanted to say that . . . I'm impressed. You're handling everything well."

He took a step back and looked genuinely touched. His eyes met hers as if she were his last lifeline, as if he had absorbed the praise like a cactus in a rainstorm.

"Thanks, Uhura."

As he turned the corner she almost called him back—she went so far as to reach a hand out to stop him. But her arm fell uselessly at her side.

She'd known that there were some things her training at the academy had not prepared her for, and now she was facing one of them with a weakness she'd never realized she had.

* * *

I appreciate all the input so much! The reviews are very inspiring. And I apologize for taking longer than usual to update, I swear it'll be faster once we hit graduation ;)

uphill09


	8. Chapter Eight

When the captain entered the bridge Spock noticed that there was a fresh mark on his cheek. Kirk strode in unabashedly and took his seat. Without taking any offense Spock realized that the captain was intent on avoiding eye contact with him or any of the other bridge members.

Kirk was agitated. His eyebrows raised and he rubbed a hand against his face, blinking wearily as if he were trying to remain alert. It was a matter of ten seconds before Kirk was tapping his foot, cracking his knuckles, and shifting restlessly in his chair. Spock would not have noticed except that each movement registered sharply in his peripheral vision—as the child of Earth's ambassador he had learned to pay attention to mannerisms, particularly the nervous habits of humans and the emotions they revealed.

He remembered his mother's own agitation, her expressive face. It had always betrayed her true feelings. Spock thought it was curious how shamelessly and openly she felt, but Kirk's emoting was all the more obvious: it was clear that something had upset him.

But it was evident that whatever the issue was, it did not pertain to the current condition of Winona Kirk.

Spock excused himself from the bridge, his gaze lingering at the captain as he took his clipped steps forward. Surely Kirk was aware of his blatant stare, but he was determined not to see.

The turbolift deposited him on the floor of the bridge crews' quarters, where he met Uhura waiting for the lift herself. Spock stepped out and they let the lift rise back up to the bridge.

"You did not tell him," Spock stated, searching her eyes.

Uhura nodded. "Bad timing," she said. She pressed her lips together guiltily.

"You imply that there is a good time."

"No." Uhura sighed. "What was I supposed to do? That brother of his had escaped the brig and half of the head security team had shoved their way up. It hardly seemed like the time to deliver bad news."

"Someone must."

She shifted uncomfortably. Spock knew she would never ask him to tell Kirk; although Uhura was not prone to emotional displays, she was a slave to her pride. She would deem this request a weakness or a flaw, when in fact it was only her humanity.

"You cannot avoid him for long," Spock said softly. He cupped a hand on her cheek and she looked up, startled but touched by the gesture.

"I know." She turned her head, leaning into his hand.

"Nyota," he prompted her after a moment.

She stood up a little straighter. "He's at the bridge right now. I can't tell him, he's busy."

Spock heard the desperate edge to her voice. "It is unlikely that the captain would leave the bridge before we arrive at Acton, and then he will most certainly be occupied."

"He has the mission on his mind, then. It would be . . . illogical to tell him," Uhura persisted, borrowing one of Spock's favorite excuses.

The closest to real emotion Spock felt was in the reflection of Uhura's eyes. A part of him twinged at her sadness. He wished to rid her of it, but he knew it was beyond his power.

Spock did not want to manipulate this sadness, but he did have to point out the true logic of the situation so that she could not deny the necessity of informing the captain.

"Starfleet sent the message because the chances of Winona Kirk's survival are slim. I am certain they intended to prepare the captain for the possibility of her death. It is only fair that he is made aware," Spock said evenly, willing himself not to flinch at her widening eyes. To emphasize what he is trying to convey, he added abruptly, "Before it is too late."

Her features contorted in distress. Spock mechanically lowered his hand from her cheek and took a measured step away from her, resisting the faint and nearly imperceptible ache in his chest to empathize with her. Uhura was unaware of how nearly she broke his calm and he intended to keep it that way.

He understood that her silence was permission.

"I will tell the captain," he offered again, and this time she nodded.

"Please." Her voice wavered, but only barely.

They stood in a mutual silence for a moment. "I'm sorry," said Uhura.

Spock raised an eyebrow. She had nothing to be sorry for. It was human nature to feel, and Uhura's nature to feel for everyone around her as well. She took on unnecessary and illogical burdens that she need not bear, for the sake of others. It was why Spock loved her.

Before he could consider uttering these words out loud, though, Uhura had summoned the turbolift and left him standing alone in the hallway. The moment was gone.

Spock wondered if his father ever told his mother that he loved her, because when he thought about it, he wasn't sure if he ever did himself.

* * *

Chekov had not eaten lunch when their shore leave had been so abruptly cut off, and by now it was practically dinner time. Unwilling to admit that he'd been so engrossed in a physics textbook that he'd missed lunch back on the land base, he'd sat at his station all day trying to distract himself from the pangs of hunger. Naturally, he was ravenous by the time he managed to dismiss himself from the bridge and shove his way into the line at the mess hall—he was prone to being jostled about in the crowd, but somehow he plunged through it and found an empty table.

Aside from the bridge crew, Chekov was embarrassed to admit that he really didn't know anyone aboard the Enterprise. He was uncertain if it would be too forward of him to introduce himself to the other crew members. Despite his higher rank he was afraid of coming off as disrespectful to the much older and more experienced Starfleet personnel.

He ate alone, but he didn't mind. He usually brought a PADD with him and pulled up the library of texts he'd had the forethought to enter in before departing. He'd grown so used to this pattern of events that he was more than a little surprised when Uhura sat down across from him and looked at him expectantly.

Chekov bristled a bit in his chair. He hadn't forgotten how she snapped at him earlier.

"Jes?" he asked, intending to sound cold toward her. Instead he just sounded like he'd swallowed chunks of ice. Chekov internally cursed his boyish inflections, blushing into the mush of his spaghetti.

"Why are you sitting all by yourself?" she asked.

His anger dissipated into embarrassment. "I haff my PADD," he answered defensively, and she didn't press the matter. Chekov attempted to ignore her by pretending to read, but he was distracted by her relentless presence. He finally looked up, exasperated.

There was what appeared to be a tear streak that ran down her face. Chekov softened at once, and she noticed his stare.

"Ju do not vant any food from ze line?" he asked in a rush, trying to sidestep the awkwardness of being caught looking at her.

"No, I'm not hungry." She leaned forward, her eyes set on him. "Listen, Chekov, I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. I didn't mean it."

"Eet ees alright, I understand," Chekov mumbled, blushing. He fiddled aimlessly with the spaghetti on his plate for a moment, and then cautiously met her eye again. "Ju are steel sad?"

She tensed. "Yeah."

"Jou do not haff to tell me why," Chekov assured her.

A small smile twitched at her lips as if he had said something amusing. "I know."

He cleared his throat and tried to find another topic of discussion. "Zees spaghetti ees awful, nuzzing like ze Russians can make."

He was gratified by her thin laughter. "I'll bet," she conceded.

Chekov was already finished. He didn't have much patience for mealtime because it carved out precious minutes of his day he could spend productively. But Uhura was still sitting across from him looking dejected and Chekov thought it might be rude to just leave her there.

"Jou do not vant to talk about eet, but jou seet zere like you do."

"Oh, I do, Chekov."

"But jou can't."

He has agitated her. "I can't."

"Ze Russians newer reweal zeir secrets," Chekov said lightly. He offered her the cookie he didn't want and she took it absent-mindedly.

"It's not really my secret to tell."

Chekov wondered if this was what high school was like. He was about to open his mouth to reply but just then the captain himself sat down next to him. Upon seeing the look on Kirk's face Chekov wished very much that he had decided to leave Uhura in her sadness earlier. Kirk was livid.

"You want to go on the away team on a planet that's at _war_?"

"Cease-fire, keptin," Chekov said feebly, knowing already that he has lost the argument. Uhura leaves with a stricken look about her and Chekov cannot help but feel betrayed.

"Let me get this straight. You've never been on an away team before now. We've just been informed that there is a near imminent threat of sabotage. You're seventeen fucking years old and you think you can just waltz in on an away mission without informing me?"

"Commander Spock vas—"

"Commander Spock, my ass," Kirk growled. "I'm the captain of this ship."

"Aye, sir, but I—"

"No buts. Jesus, kid—"

"Not a keed," Chekov said under his breath.

"—if Sulu hadn't finally told me what the hell was going on up there and you went on that mission without informing me, I'd kill you myself if you made it back alive."

"_Sulu_?" Chekov nearly choked. "_Sulu_ told you about the away team?"

"He doesn't want you on it anymore than I do."

"предатель," Chekov muttered angrily in Russian.

Kirk was too exasperated to ask what he meant by it. "You're not going," he said simply.

Chekov willed himself not to react angrily. If the other crew members reacted it would be out of determination or drive, but if he did it would just be perceived as wild teenage hormones. As if he'd ever endured such a phase.

So he took a deep breath. "Permeesion to speak freely, keptin?" he asked evenly.

Kirk seemed somewhat surprised. "Granted."

"I haff not had ze opportunity to be on ze avay team prewiously, and ze Preence Carmeleon and I are quite fameeliar vith each ozzer. He has requested zat Starfleet send personnel zat are not perceived as a threat." Chekov raised his eyebrows at the captain, glad to see that Kirk was actively considering his point. "I am not wery threatening, keptin—but I am skeelled een wudimentary combat eef necessary."

"So basically you're saying you don't care if I send your body back to your parents with a note that says, 'Don't worry, he didn't _look threatening_, so some aliens went ahead and mauled him."

Chekov allowed himself a small smile. He could see that he had nearly persuaded the captain already. "Eh, zey haff all my seesters—"

"Enough bullshit, Chekov, I'm serious."

Ah, so he wanted serious. "Ju zink zat my parents vould allow me to enleest een Starfleet vithout knowing ze reesks?" Chekov would not go so far as to bore the captain with all the court orders involved with his enlistment, but legally emancipating himself from his family so that he could act as his own guardian had not been a fleeting decision.

After a deliberating silence Kirk sighed. "Alright. You're in."

Chekov grinned.

"But I'm coming with you."

* * *

Usually all Sam has to do is listen to the series of beeps on the keypad to learn the passcodes. When Jimmy was seven years old he'd spent hours fascinated with a pad just like that, one that Frank used to lock up one of their father's old cars. Sam would watch him pressing the keys and humming to himself.

A few months later he'd found Jimmy's entire torso leaning into the open hood of the car.

_"How the hell did you get past the code?" Sam demanded upon entering the garage. _

_Jimmy's blue eyes were brighter than he'd ever seen them, startling in contrast to the dark bruise circling the socket. "Look at this." _

_He was pointing to the inside of the car hood. "It's a bunch of wires and shit," said Sam, unimpressed. _

_"It's so cool." _

_Sam laughed. "You don't even know what those do." _

_"I'll figure it out." _

_"How'd you get it open?" Sam tried to keep his voice more casual this time, as if the information meant nothing to him. But Jimmy was more malleable than clay and would have told him regardless. _

_His head was still immersed in the hood as he answered, his little voice alight with excitement. "I memorized how the code sounds when he opened it." _

_Sam understood that the "he" meant Frank; for whatever reason, Jimmy always avoided saying his name. _

_"How'd you get a look?" Sam asked. _

_His suspicious tone was lost on Jimmy, who looked up with a toothy grin. "I didn't." Then he hummed a string of notes merrily. _

_"You gonna tell me or what?" _

_"That's it," said Jimmy indignantly. He hummed again and it took all of Sam's willpower not to smack him out of impatience. "That's the code," Jimmy insisted. "Each of the numbers has its own sound, and when he punched them in I remembered the tune and played it on the keypad again." _

_Sam's smile stretched the entire length of his face. "Teach me." _

Jimmy obviously remembered the incident. The keypads on the Enterprise were soundless, but that didn't hinder Sam all that much, not in the scheme of things. He was a little ashamed of how long it had taken him to work out the algorithms on the first code Jimmy had set, actually.

It was a five-part algorithm based on the numbers 2233.04. To anyone else it would be Jimmy's birthday, but to the brothers it was the day their father died. Jimmy had always been a sucker for sentimental shit like that.

After Sam escaped Jimmy set the captain's override code to the brig on random digits. It would be hopeless to try and get out without a tricorder, it might take weeks.

But Jimmy was negligent. He'd only reset his override codes to one deck. With the standard PADD installed in the prison cell, Sam could easily use the old algorithms to access anything and everything Jimmy had access to.

Sam read the urgent message from Starfleet. Not even a flicker of emotion passed on his face—one thing Jimmy hadn't taught him was subtlety, because Sam had learned it all on his own.

He read the message a second time and shut the PADD down. He knew Jimmy would be down here to reset the codes within the hour, and then Sam could make him see the truth he'd tried so hard to ignore. All he had to do was wait.

* * *

I'm sorry I haven't updated in, like, a week. I'm squeezing in paragraphs as I walk out the door. It is, as they say, "ridonkulous."

Blehhh.


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